


Three Times Root Wants to Kiss Shaw (and the One Time Shaw Does)

by FujinoLover



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cold War, F/F, If-Then-Else, Mors Praematura, POV Second Person, Post-Honor Among Thieves, Root's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FujinoLover/pseuds/FujinoLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Loosely connected to a couple of works in my Bang Bang series. It’s not my usual kind of writing, so please bear with me if it somehow gets weird.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Three Times Root Wants to Kiss Shaw (and the One Time Shaw Does)

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely connected to a couple of works in my Bang Bang series. It’s not my usual kind of writing, so please bear with me if it somehow gets weird.

It has been a while since you’re with anyone in the physical sense. People don’t pique your interest and stay long enough in your radar to keep up the attraction. Nothing more than casual flirting or deliberate touch on the arm or when you’re feeling generous, a peck on the cheek. But you’ve liked Shaw before you met her in person. You didn’t lie when you said you’re kinda a big fan of her, you still are.

“Okay, so what’s the package?”

Third time is the charm and it’s the third time you’re with her and on a mission too. You’re way beyond foreplay—threat of hot iron on her face and bullet to your shoulder took care of it. Her hair’s mussed, breath labored from her fight with the CIA operative. She’s a tiny force thrumming with adrenalin that dries up your mouth. You wet your lips as you retrieve the hood and zip-ties from the drawer.

“I am,” you say, grinning.

Her look of surprise is precious, but she’s smart and quick on her feet. She snatches one of the zip-ties. You watch her stuffing the unconscious man into the empty closet and zip-ties him as you lean on the desk and secure one around your own wrists.

She doesn’t play around. She intrudes your space and heaves you up by the hips. You can loop your tied arms around her neck, use it to trap and force her for a kiss but it will do more harm than good. You settle on groping her chest, just a bit unsatisfied with her clothes being in your way. She growls, pressing herself closer but doesn’t do anything to remove her clothes. She tugs down your jeans instead. You pout. You long for hand-holding and cuddling and soft kisses almost as much as breath-play and bondage and being lifted onto the desk with arms bound and jeans around your knees in a spartan CIA pickup site. You don’t complain, though. Not when she sets your panties aside and buries herself knuckle-deep inside you and her thumb circling where you need it the most. You shut your eyes, panting through parted lips.

You feel it coming. The heat spreading from your core throughout your body and the way your muscles clench around her, never want to let her go. She halts. You don’t have the opportunity to whine because the next thing you know, you’re trembling in pain and pleasure. She has tasered you with your own stun gun. You whimper. She starts working you out all over again and when you’re dangling on the edge, she tasers you some more. You can’t stop the cry of frustration this time.

Her nose nudges your cheek; you like to believe that it’s a show of affection instead of due to the position. Her breaths caress your flushed skin when she tells you to beg. If you turn your head to the side, just a little, her lips will be on yours. You don’t dare to. You pretend the remaining sweetness of the apple is the taste of her lips as you do as she said.

 

* * *

 

The second time you have sex with her, you return the favor. You might be a teeny-tiny bit jealous of Tomas. Your insistence to strip her off and incarcerate the clothes is a necessary part of full decontamination, but it also might be your way to rid everything that’s connected to him. She lets you lead this time. She’s content with being pressed against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall, warm water cascading over as you kneel and take her in your mouth. The small noises she makes are ones you won’t ever forget.

You take your time to pepper kisses all over her body afterward, pausing only once at her cleavage. You bite on the side of her left breast, right above her heart. She’s yours. You’re perfect for each other. She’s gonna figure it out someday.

You might be a big flirt— _you_ _are_ —but she’s a tease and a mean one at that. She brings you up, licks at your bottom lip and moans at the taste of herself. Against your better judgment, you chase after her in hope for a real kiss. You regret the impulsive move not a second later, when you catch the corner of her mouth because she’s turned her head away.

“Don’t do this now.”

She doesn’t do kissing, just like she doesn’t do relationship. It’s too intimate and it makes her uncomfortable, she’s shown you so during hood and zip-ties in a CIA safe house with ten hours to kill. You want nothing but to run out of the bathroom and pretend you didn’t just make a fool of yourself. She doesn’t let you. She’s small and pretty, but also strong. She flips the position around, pins your arms above your head, and stands on her tiptoes to peck you on the cheek.

“Not yet,” she says.

You blink the unshed tears away. Her heart is beating against yours at the same rushed pace and you know there’s a possibility in the future. Maybe someday.

 

* * *

 

You visit her between identity shifts. She’s pissed for being drugged, but not for long. Her face lights up when you brandish out an array of sex toys—spreader bar, nipple clamps, and vibrator—among Mr. Bernstein’s costume. Harold will come later with his own peace offering, but only you can offer her this. You take pride from it even as she leaves you alone in the subway—naked, blindfolded, legs forced to stay apart, nipples numb with pain, and the vibrating bullet keeping you on the constant state of arousal. It’s all worth it, once she comes back and takes a good care of you.

Later that day, after you finished entertaining at a children’s party, she’s still cuffed to the chair like you’ve left her. It’s impossible to keep her locked up against her will, but she’s stayed put, for you. You tease her for it, despite your heart swelling with fondness inside your chest. You tease her some more afterward.

“Look, why don’t you ask Root what she thinks?” she says to Harold, gesturing at you. “She’s the one who wants us to bow down to our robot overlords.”

She’s so cute and you can’t stop yourself from touching her—you want to touch her all the time. “The Machine isn’t a robot, Sam.” You squeeze her shoulders, tilting your head to hers. It’s pleasing to catch a whiff of your perfume sticking on her coat. You take the drink from her hand without asking. “But I hear your analogy.”

You only take a short sip before she snatches it back. You hop onto the desk—the same one you bent her over earlier—and glance at her while talking with Harold. She’s wiping the straw with her sleeve, a frown on her face. You can’t help but smile at how adorable she’s being, acting all grumpy over a simple saliva swap, considering that hours ago she had her face between your legs without any complaint. You grin to yourself when the minty sensation of her chapstick bites your lips. The indirect kiss is good enough for you.

 

* * *

 

You notice warm liquid seeping on your shirt and the sting that comes a little late with it. Option 833,333 with 2.07% chance of asset survival is the best She can come up with and the number is plunging down. With such low odds, you made it farther than you’ve thought. You call her, because it might be your last chance to hear her voice, to say the things that need to be said before the worst comes to pass. You didn’t expect her to crawl fifty yards of air duct, but there she is, saving the day. You fall in love with her all over again.

The elevator decides to ruin the happy ending.

You grab her before she can take another step out of it. “Sameen, if you even think I’m gonna let you—”

She jerks her arm out of your hold and turns around, scowling. “For God’s sake!”

You understand that war requires sacrifices, but not her. Never her. But she is stubborn; she knows what needs to be done. You see determination glazing over her eyes and your face falls. She sighs and shakes her head, but it isn’t one done out of annoyance like usual.

The next thing you know, her lips are on yours. You don’t realize that she also grabs on your arm until much, much later when you see the bruise with the shape of her hand on it and you tear up some more. You don’t even get to be annoyed with the hair that’s getting in the way. Or to note the strong smell of explosive and fire and gunpowder on her. Or even to enjoy the warmth and fullness of her lips, because the world doesn’t stop spinning the moment she kisses you. It continues on and she shoves you away.

One of the boys catches you, you don’t know who. You’re still in daze from the kiss you’ve been waiting for years. She avoids looking at you on the eye as she pulls down the elevator inner door and secures the interlock. Then everything goes in slow motion. You can’t do anything but watch, gripping at the door with her name on your lips. The exchanged fires drown your cry. When the outer door closes with a slam, which can also be the sound of the bullet that kills her, your world stops altogether.

Your first kiss with her might also be your last.

(It’s not.)

(She’s alive—scarred and traumatized, but alive. She greets you with a kiss and you smile to it. She kisses you some more until you can no longer taste the saltiness of your tears in it.)


End file.
